


Another person's fingerprints

by Baryshnikov



Series: Spoiled Fruit [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Tom Riddle, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Jealousy suited Tom
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Spoiled Fruit [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616770
Comments: 14
Kudos: 658





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Something feels poorly constructed about this fic, so apologies; I may fix it if I ever work out what it is.

Harry swallowed and shifted his feet again, trying to bury his toes in the shag of the carpet. It might have worked too if his socks had been the same colour, but, unfortunately, they were quite the opposite; a cream rug and black socks made it hard to hide. Not that it stopped him trying. 

He needed the distraction. 

For Tom was across the room, sucking all the air out of it.

It didn’t seem to matter that the radio was humming a soft little song and that the sound of traffic could still be heard outside the window, despite the double glazing, the room was still too quiet. A stillness possessed it, a stillness that was commanded by Tom’s hand, and Tom’s hand alone, as though he were a Roman emperor deciding whether a man should live or die. 

And Tom knew what control he held. 

Though the influence that his presence demanded had never seemed to lose its novelty to him because that same smile always infected his mouth; the slightest curl of his lip when someone realised, they were lower down on the food chain. For most people, it was subconscious how obsequious they became in his presence, and those that possessed the self-awareness to understand the role they engaged in, continued to act it regardless. 

Of course, there were only a select few that didn’t like Tom, and weren’t afraid to say it out loud; their names were on a list pinned to the fridge, and Harry didn’t like to ask what happened when, every so often, Tom would draw a line through one of the names with a red marker. 

Those thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Tom’s metal spoon against the edge of his teacup. It clinked loudly and made Harry swallow again. Not that Tom seemed to notice, he just continued to stir, making whatever ridiculous amount of sugar he’d put into that cup slowly dissolve. 

Harry took a long blink; it was oppressive being in here, crushing, like being trapped against the ocean floor and feeling the water start to leak into your lungs, and just knowing that you were going to die and there was nothing you could do.

That was what it was like being in a room with Tom when he was irritated. 

When he opened his eyes again, Tom was still watching him with an intense enough look that Harry could either stare back with just as much fervour or, as he was doing, he could avoid it altogether. Just watching the floor and trying to bury his toes. Sometimes, he did stare Tom down, and sometimes he even won.

But that wasn’t the point tonight. 

This wasn’t mere disagreement, rather, this was something that had been building for a week now. Harry had felt it for the first time on Tuesday, and he’d pretended that it hadn’t existed until Thursday, but now it was undeniable; this great presence hanging like a shadow over the entire room. 

Tom had been too quiet all week, and his presence had become cold and somewhat uncomfortable to be around. Clearly, he’d been musing on something because that was how Tom functioned to do with anything that might just constitute itself as an emotion; he treated it like a pathogen that needed to be examined, understood, and cured.

Normally, that worked. 

Normally, he would have snapped out of this mood by now. 

But he hadn’t yet, so thee thing that was bothering him must have stitched itself right down under his skin; tautening his spine and straightening his neck and tightening his fingers, and shortening his temper, which made it all so much more suspicious that Tom was now ¬ _oh so causally_ lounging in the chair. His legs crossed and the teacup and saucer balanced on the arm.

He was still stirring. 

It was the one sign that Tom was not as relaxed as he’d like to be; a compulsiveness that was always more apparent when he was irritated, whether he’d admit it or not. Regardless, he was still more relaxed than Harry would have thought he’d be; limbs looser and his smile, almost lazy on his mouth.

Ever so deliberately, and without lowering his eyes, Tom brought the cup to his mouth and swallowed slowly. Harry watched as his throat contracted and he found himself pushing his hands into the gap between the seat of his chair and the arm; desperate for a distraction. 

He lowered the cup and the clink as he set it down almost Harry wince. 

“Do you know what I dislike, Harry?” Tom said softly; conversationally almost, as he leaned back, moulding his spine to the back of the chair and continuing to smile like a jaguar might if it had the capability. 

Harry shook his head. 

Still paying too much attention to the floor. The grains of the wood, and how they disappeared under the pale fluff of the carpet before reappearing on the other side. It was an interesting past time, but not one he would have engaged in had Tom not been watching him.

And he knew he was watching his every move, cataloguing it somewhere in the back of his brain to dig out later. Harry could feel his eyes as they burrowed beneath his skin and ate their way into his blood vessels. 

“Well, I’ll tell you, shall I?” he said, starting to lean forward as though this were a much more intimate, and somewhat illicit conversation within their own home. “I dislike people who can’t respect personal property,” Tom murmured, “I mean, at best it’s contemptible, at worst… it’s appalling.”

The words, whatever they were, cut through all the other sounds of the room and went straight to the centre of Harry’s brain, and it all made sense. He knew what this was about. What all the seething that had become so wet with feeling it was dripping like Spanish moss from Tom’s every word, was actually about. 

Tom took another sip of his tea, his head tipped back and the crest of his throat on display. Harry could see it in his periphery, and he couldn’t help but take it as a promise of what Tom was going to do later; what he always did when he felt there was the slightest chance that something he had claimed as his own, might just slide like sand between his fingers. 

Jealousy was not something that looked good on most people; but Tom wasn’t most people, and despite how _unintentional_ this situation was, a small of Harry, somewhere deep in his stomach was glowing. An intense fuzziness spreading a warmth through his veins and right into his heart; just knowing that Tom could get irritated enough by someone’s innocent hands greeting him, that it would disrupt his entire week, was simply thrilling. 

But when Harry didn’t reply or even offer his agreement, Tom stood up. The teacup remained balanced on the arm of his chair whilst he walked over; the sound of his shoes, at first, clicking hard against the wood of the floor, before they became quite muffled by the carpet. 

He stood there, casting a shadow across the chair that Harry sat in, subsuming him in the process. And Harry kept his eyes firmly on his feet, in part, because he feared he might smile at the sweetest, but mostly because he doubted, he could face Tom’s smile without having his insides ripped down by the sheer ferocity of feeling.

“I want you to look at me, Harry,” he said, his tone still light, all things considered; though it was impossible to miss the intonations of control that threaded their way through; as though each and every word had been formed inside a perfect, objective, mould that would not let feelings leak into it. Of course, there was also the command laced between the letters, for this was not merely a request, but a demand politely worded.

And, because it was Tom, Harry would obey. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised up his chin, taking in the full length of Tom as he did so. He wetted his lips. There was a vehemence to Tom that usually wasn’t quite so close to the surface; something thick and dark lodged in his skin like fragments of glass. Normally this _violence_ , for that was what it was in the purest sense, was kept shut away and reserved for only the most irritating of moments. 

But now, it practically dripped from his skin

Tom leaned down and took Harry’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. His fingers were still warm from holding the teacup, and they held him firmly enough to leave behind pale indents. “I don’t like it when other people touch my personal property,” he murmured, bringing his face close enough to Harry’s that Harry could feel the heat of his tongue. “You understand that, don’t you, Harry?” 

Harry just swallowed.

This close up, Tom was too intense for words to hold sway. There was a point where things become too strange or too grotesque or simply too handsome to describe, and now the point had been reached. Harry continued to watch though, even with his thoughts a mere mess of sensation and suggestion. The thoughts of what Tom’s hands would feel like, and how hot his mouth would be, and other, simple things, like how his eyes looked like black treacle moving in viscous swirls, sucking Harry in as a whirlpool does hapless ships

But Tom just smiled in a way that contained equal measures of seduction and cruelty. Though, he loosened his grip on Harry’s chin, and instead began to track his fingers down to his neck. “I don’t like feeling them on you,” he said, as he traced the jugular with the very tips of his nails. “Their fingerprints on your wrists, and their handprints on your back, and their kisses your cheek.”

Tom’s nails crossed to the other side of his throat and continued up the parallel line, scratching a pink strip into the skin. “I can smell their cologne on your collar after they get too close,” he murmured, his fingers dipping down to undo Harry’s collar.

“And I hate it.”

Without meaning to, Harry shivered and then squirmed; pressing himself further back into the chair as Tom leaned closer, his lips grazing the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Remember, Harry,” he said softly, his mouth so warm against the shell of his ear, “you’re mine to do what I will with, and I am not _willing_ to share.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope this entirely unnecessary addition is tolerable.

The gravity of Tom’s words hung heavy in the air, as though each letter contained a paperweight that pressed harder onto the articles that made up Harry’s lungs. It was an obvious statement to say that for all the time Harry had known him, Tom had never been good at sharing, especially not what he thought was rightfully _his_. 

And the simple thought of that just sent another spike of adrenaline, or rather, this slow rising crescendo of tension, to the base of Harry’s stomach; a rolling ache like waves over a shoreline, that had him gripping the seat of the chair and biting hard into his lip so as not to make a sound.

It didn’t help that Tom was practically on top of him. 

Another weight, this time with a certain magnetic physicality ingrained within it, bearing down on him; practically crushing him. Though, in reality, all Tom was really doing was pressing his fingers into Harry’s neck; just scraping and scratching the same sort of patterns he’d usually make with his tongue, into the skin. It made every nerve ending prickle, and Harry suck air, harder than he’d like, into his lungs.

But with Tom so close, Harry couldn’t breathe in without inhaling his entire aura; from the soft scent of the cologne he worn this morning still lingering on his neck, to the fragrance of his tea; sharp, and suffused right into the fabric of his shirt. Harry was quite sure that if he tasted Tom’s fingers or even his mouth, he’d get that same sweet aroma embedded into his tongue.

Yet he made no move to touch or kiss because Tom was the controller of this game, and he had not yet given an indication that he would like a secondary participant to join him. So, Harry stayed, rooted to the spot, and feeling the scratch of the material of the chair as he shifted. Without really meaning to, he continued to roll his lips between his teeth, leaving deep indents in the skin and blood pooling just beneath the surface.

He didn’t dare move with Tom’s teeth so close to his ear, and Tom’s hands quite capable of wrapping themselves around his throat at a mere moment’s notice. And, besides, it was obvious that Tom needed to play out this scene in its entirety. That, for a week, he had been meticulously choreographing each movement, and now there was nothing that wasn’t poised or positioned or placed to an almost mathematical precision. 

This was the outlet of sorts for the jealousy under Tom’s skin, and he _needed_ it, otherwise, the feelings would only swell and fester until they were repulsive to look upon, and cruel in their intentions.

Most people would think that jealousy was a hideous monster that needed the tightest of leashes to hold it still. But what was before Harry’s eyes was not hideous, in fact, it was hypnotising. Jealousy that merely skimmed the surface instead of plunging deep beneath was entrancing to watch, for, it brought a darkness and a corporeality to the subject, without the fear and intimidation that could otherwise be so alarming. 

Just watching, _feeling_ , how Tom moved. The weight of his hands on his neck juxtaposed with the lightness of his lips on the zygomatic bone right beside his ear, and the methodical, almost predatory attention to detail, sent Harry’s stomach curling tighter. It was an undeniably deliberate gesture, and so persuasive, and, in the moment, Harry would have been happy if no one else could ever touch him again. 

“I don’t want,” Tom murmured, still mouthing slowly over Harry’s cheek, meticulously working his way down to his jawline, “to share you with _anyone_.”

Harry swallowed. 

His jaw was clenched so tight that he thought he might wear through his teeth. The was not a thing in his living memory that he had wanted more than Tom right now. Just hearing him speak, stringing words together into this captivating chain, as melodic as the music that continued to play, and as constant as the noise of the traffic. He wanted to just reach up, and grab and pull, until Tom’s body was moulded to his.

And everyone could see they were connected in an inimitable fashion. 

“You understand that, don’t you, Harry?” Tom continued, as both his mouth and his fingers met at Harry’s carotid artery. They lingered there, feeling the throb beneath the skin; the thudding, aching rhythm of a body working the way it should. 

Harry didn’t move, words were failing to form, let alone be articulated. 

Tom pulled his mouth away from Harry’s throat, though his fingers remained; and Harry found himself swallowing again, just to keep the rising feelings inside him. There was no denying, no matter who you were or what you found attractive, that Tom was simply striking like this. The dimness of the room working to his advantage, drawing sharp shadows, and cutting smooth lines of light.

Like this, the violence beneath his skin, and that, distinct, emotion of jealousy was indisputably obvious. Somehow, it curled itself like a snake into the curve of Tom’s smile, and into the tilt of his head, and even in the intensity of his eyes. It licked at the former clarity and instead laid a film across the colour; darkening what had already been black into something indescribable. A colour that didn’t exist, and yet, was right before Harry, shining and sparking as though an electrical fire was buried somewhere inside. 

And there was something else too. The lights here were warm; yellows and oranges that made this room dance with autumnal tones, but they reflected back as well. Cast their shades through the shadows, until they blurred together; colours mixing and mingling and merging until the gloom was tainted with a red that soaked Tom’s eyes and the tips of his hair and the very corners of his mouth. 

There were no words for the feeling it provoked. 

But it didn’t matter that jealously was supposed to be green because Tom made it look like it had always been red. And still, he continued to smile in the same assured way, for, he must have known, despite his feelings otherwise, that Harry would never leave him. Harry would admit to himself that he would be a fool to throw all of _this_ away, and while Harry was many things, he was not, he’d like to believe, a fool.

Harry shifted again, his hands fumbling nervously together in his lap. Just another distraction. Something to do to stop the thrill of this evening spread any further already. The movement must have caught Tom’s attention, for he let his eyes drop with such a slow sensuality that it was impossible not to compare that action with a snake slithering across a branch. 

“Don’t you, Harry?” Tom repeated, though Harry had entirely forgotten what the question was anymore. But he still nodded, his head bobbing overenthusiastically. It didn’t really matter what, exactly, it was that he was agreeing to, if Tom was involved in any way, then it must be a good thing. 

Harry didn’t get to muse on it for much longer though, as Tom’s hand enclosed around his throat, swallowing it up in its warm grasp. He couldn’t help himself tip his neck back and let Tom mould his fingers to the curves of his throat and _squeeze_. It wasn’t enough to hurt, only to acknowledge the throbbing of his pulse against Tom’s skin, and the intoxicating need to be held and owned and enjoyed. 

Tom was certainly enjoying himself.

That was obvious from the flush at the base of his neck; the split in his shirt, where the buttons had been undone, revealed a long strip of skin, painted with a thick coating of candyfloss pink. Not to mention the curve of his smile and the stickiness of his eyes and firmness of his fingers. The grip that only came about when he was quite sure of what he wanted and how he was going to get it. 

But just as tonight wasn’t about Harry challenging Tom, nor was it about Tom indulging his more sadist side. He was never in the mood to maim, however impermanently, when he got like this; for, though Tom would probably like to think to the contrary, he lacked the restraint in times of emotion to make such maiming satisfying. 

So, Tom’s hand retreated. First, unfurling itself from his throat, his grasp weakening, until it was just the very tips of Tom’s fingers that touched the skin; and even they fell away like leaves from a tree, to wander down to Harry’s collar again, but this time undoing the topmost button. Tom paused, and for a brief moment, Harry thought he’d stop there, that this game, or whatever it was, was now over.

But Tom merely tilted his head to the side; his tongue wetting his lips again, before moving his hand down the two inches to the next button. 

“What I hate,” Tom said, still with the same, soft, syrupy tone, that perched on the border of casual and intimate, “is how they look at you.” Somehow, Tom’s tongue lingered on all the right words and Harry shivered, shifting back and forth ever so slightly; trying at once to both get closer and further away, almost like someone was going to interrupt, even though there was no one else here. 

Not that it stopped Tom. He just continued, his fingers light against Harry’s shirt; pushing at the button with his thumb before pulling at it with the rest of his fingers. Every so often, when a button was stubborn, he’d press it into Harry’s skin, and Tom’s warm fingers would _touch_ him.

Harry swallowed, harder than before. 

“I hate,” Tom continued, “how they _want_ you.” His tone had dipped lower, the timbre lower and the quality somehow richer; as though this was a new, and unexplored territory filled with caches yet to be revealed. But whatever it was, it had Harry biting his tongue and fighting with himself just to keep his eyes open because, all at once, he both wanted to see what Tom was doing, and absolutely could not bear to witness his own demise, however pleasurable, in so much clarity. 

But Tom’s next action sealed his decision. 

With only the slightest glance upward and the slightest at the corner of his mouth, as a warning, Tom pressed his left palm that had, until now, been resting on the arm of the chair, between Harry’s thighs. The hand was warm, and the fingers firm and they made the entire tangled mess in Harry’s jolt. Harry squeezed shut his eyes and balled his hands into fists, rubbing the knuckles against the seat of the chair, until they started to burn. 

“What I hate the most though,” Tom said almost _too_ causally, as he gripped at Harry’s inner thigh, his thumb sliding back and forth in a way that would have been soothing, if it hadn’t been so suggestive, “is how they think they _know_ what you want.”

Tom clicked his tongue, the sound, cutting through the rushing of blood to Harry’s ears, and becoming his grounding force in the world, especially given the gloom behind his scrunched-up eyes. But no matter how grounded he felt, Harry couldn’t help the shakiness of his breath, when Tom slowly parted his thighs, one after the other, and each scratching against the chair’s cover. 

“Remember, Harry, only _I_ know what you want.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, here's another unnecessary chapter.

For a moment, Tom paused, the weight of his words drifting like a seashell on the music’s gentle waves. But even with the soft sounds of the song swirling through the room, Harry could still hear, and _feel_ , Tom breathing; the slow inhale and exhale of a man adamantly controlling himself. Somehow, it seemed so loud, and Harry was only left to imagine how Tom’s eyes were wandering all over him.

How they must be watching him with the intentness of a snake about to strike; reading into the every micromovement his face made. Tom would almost certainly be able to see the furrow between his brows, and the quivering of his eyelids, and how the very edge of his lip was still caught between his teeth.

Tom would see everything, and Tom would know exactly what he was thinking because Tom _always_ knew. 

As if on cue, Harry heard Tom swallow, and felt his gaze settle heavy on his mouth. Sitting here, in the self-imposed darkness behind his eyelids, Harry couldn’t help but imagine how Tom would tilt his head to the left as he observed his lips, and how his tongue would press into his teeth, and how he’d smile at what he knew was his. 

“Only I know what you want,” Tom repeated, but softer this time as if he was trying to convince himself that that was true. Still though, his tone was warm, genuine, and as a sweet as honey suggestiveness running effortlessly among the letters. And with it, the fuzziness in Harry’s stomach started to fizz again, rising upward and spreading out until it touched the tip of his lungs and the very edge of his heart. 

He swallowed.

It was unfair what Tom did to him.

But, then again, Harry wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Tom seemed to sense Harry’s acceptance of what was going to happen, as he exhaled slowly and, by the sound of it, wetted his mouth. Harry could hear the running of Tom’s tongue over his lips; it was undeniably an obscene sound that made him shift further back in the chair and scrunch the tips of his toes deeper into the shag of the carpet. 

If Tom noticed, he didn’t say anything. Although, he did move closer, his mouth brushing against the skin of Harry’s cheek, and the hand that was still on his thigh, repositioned itself so that it could grip more firmly.

There was an undeniable possessiveness in that touch.

And it was indubitably the touch of a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and exactly how he was going to get it; and the thought of it, combined with the thought of the smile that must have been pressed into Tom’s mouth, made Harry’s skin prickle and his stomach drop several feet.

He was so caught up in the feeling of Tom’s hands on him, that Harry didn’t even feel Tom’s other hand coming to touch his hair until Tom’s fingers were lacing themselves through the roots. Harry couldn’t help but shudder; only just catching himself from opening his eyes. Instead, he tried to focus on how Tom’s fingers were so gentle; softly sliding a section of hair behind his ear, keeping the pads of his fingers light on his scalp, and the nails just skimming over the surface until Harry’s spine shivered. “Only I know what you _need_ ,” Tom murmured, somehow emphasising all the right syllables to make something innocent sound entirely… indecent.

“And what you need…” he said, pausing long enough that Harry could count the silence by the beats of his heart, “…is me,” Tom continued, his hand smoothing up along the length of Harry’s thigh, his thumb wrinkling the material as he went. The gesture was as pervasive as it was persistent; and yet, still, it held a certain casualness, like it was obvious that the only person who could ever do this was Tom.

“Isn’t it, Harry?”

Harry swallowed again. The stream of thoughts inside his head was relentless but none of them was useful, not when his heart was thudding as though it was being pounded underfoot, and there was a tightness in his throat, and the throbbing of his pulse in his neck was bordering on unbearable. Even his breathing was faltering; the oxygen in his lungs being steadily sucked out of him by Tom, who stood there as still and devasting as a black hole; probably admiring his own destructive capabilities.

He nodded. 

After all, he _did_ need Tom, just as, whether Tom would admit it or not, he needed Harry. They were in perfect equilibrium: one craving the electrification of control, the other, the thrill of subjugation, and if the conduit for such a dynamic was red-stained jealousy, then so be it. 

Tom interrupted his thoughts. “I want you to look at me when you answer me,” he said softly, though an acidity was there now. Something splintered through his tone; something tight and as sharp as shards of glass trickling off his tongue. The demand behind it was painfully obvious. 

Tom wanted to be noticed. 

He wanted to be told just how much he himself was appreciated, wanted, needed. It was a requirement that Harry knew well, though one not born from insecurity as you might expect but from arrogance. Tom already knew he was everything _anyone_ wanted, he just liked having someone say it aloud to him, over and over again.

“I want you to look at me,” Tom repeated, the hand on Harry’s thigh pausing, though that just acted as an excuse to press more weight onto it; pushing the fabric right into his skin until Harry was sure that his thigh would be permanently marked with the seams of the denim. 

A small part of Harry wanted to deny him; to take what was, ultimately, a fantasy scenario and turn it into something much more… tangible. That dark, devious part of him, wanted to really test Tom’s limits and see what exactly happened when he inevitably snapped. 

But not today. 

Not when this emotion had been swelling for days now. It would be cruel and underhand, and Harry knew that if he was dishonest then Tom would retaliate twofold; and that would be nasty and vicious, with Tom letting that sadistic side of him have free reign. Harry already knew he wouldn’t enjoy those results. 

So, he licked his lips, and as slowly as he could, opened his eyes.

The view did not disappoint. Tom was still there, just as he had been before, exactly the right distance that Harry could still see him with his glasses on. Though there was an intensity to Tom’s gaze that hadn’t been there before; it was in his eyes, flickering in the darkness, and in his fingers as they continued to grip Harry’s thigh, keeping him still. 

“Remember,” Tom said, “only I get to look at you.”

It was such a simple thing, and yet, Harry knew he was flushing; he could feel the careful creeping of that tell-tale heat crawling along his skin and coiling itself around his throat. But maybe that was because of whatever lurked beneath the surface of those words, something shiny and slick and sordid. 

Filled to the brim with the promise of escalation. 

That promise was quickly fulfilled when Tom raised his fingers off where they had come to rest at Harry’s shoulder and, instead, once again held his jaw. For a moment, Tom merely watched him, his pupils stretched wide and his eyes unblinking, and still watching like he was searching for some elixir in Harry’s eyes.

But the impatience under his skin wouldn’t allow Tom stay still for very long before his grip was tightening again, and he was leaning closer; with the gentleness that was frankly unbecoming of him, Tom brushed his lips over Harry’s. It was a gesture that would have been sugar sweet if he hadn’t used his teeth.

But he had. 

He gripped Harry’s jaw harder and continued to bite down until his fingerprints were embedded into Harry’s skin and shape of his teeth were imprinted into his mouth. It should _not_ have been attractive, but Harry found himself melting anyway; his spine curving inward even as he tried his hardest to keep his feet against the floor.

To stay connected to something tangible before he was swallowed by Tom’s smile.

Though that was hard when Tom was leaning into him again and kissing him properly now, moulding his lips to Harry’s, easing open his mouth and curling his tongue inside.   
“Only I get to taste you,” Tom murmured between kisses that each seemed to be more languid than the last like he was trying to hook out Harry’s very soul, with the barbed wire tip of his tongue. 

And Harry would have let him. 

He’d let Tom have anything he wanted, _everything_ he wanted even, just as long as he kept kissing him like this. Just as long as he stayed this close and made every other sound blur out into the same tone of static. Just as long as he – 

Tom pulled away before Harry could conclude exactly what he’d do for this moment to continue into eternity. For it to always be the two of them, forever reliving this moment. Harry swallowed, saliva sticking in his throat. His hands were too hot from being balled at his sides and the knuckles were raw from being rubbed against the material, but it was all worth it to see Tom starting to fray at the edges. 

His hand pressing harder because he needed something tangible to grip onto, and a flush the colour of candyfloss and as thick as strawberry milkshake spilled all over his skin. Tom licked his lips, all too aware he was being watched, and as if to emphasise the fact, he cast his gaze down Harry’s body, until his lids were heavy over his eyes, and his mouth was curling at the corners like paper on fire.

He liked what he saw. 

Harry just kept his eyes firmly on Tom’s hair, watching how the light turned a single curl at least seven different shades. It was better than looking at Tom’s smile, or even worse, down at himself. Harry didn’t need to see what his body was doing, not when he could feel it in excruciating detail against the seam of his jeans.

By the time Tom raised his eyes again, Harry was squirming. Everything felt itchy and hot and desperately tight, and as much as it made him flush to think about, Harry knew he just wanted to feel the weight of Tom’s hands; the pressure of his touch in all the places it currently wasn’t. 

“Only I get to touch you,” Tom said, still soft, though his tone was lower and darker, and held a certain roughness around the edges now like fabric beginning to unravel itself. And, in the space between each word, there remained a promise of exactly what he was going to do to him. 

Harry tensed, squeezing all his muscles as hard as he could, and fighting the urge to close his eyes again. Instead, he continued to stare at Tom’s smile, although, he tried to focus on the smoothness of the carpet and the roughness of the chair, and absolutely not what Tom’s fingers were starting to do between his thighs. 

And that worked. 

Until it didn’t. 

Until Tom was rolling his palm with a touch too much precision and watching him, with a smile that oozed enough magnetism that Harry had to clamp his teeth against his lip just to stop himself from making a sound that would offend the furniture. Tom’s only smile widened, and he moved his face back an inch or so, until the shadows draped themselves all over him, once again sculpting him with iniquitous lines and colouring in the spaces with even more lascivious shades. 

“Remember, Harry,” Tom murmured, as he continued the slow, shameless, rub of his fingers over his jeans, “only I get to fuck you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll definitely be revisiting jealousy because this fic definitely does not do it the justice it deserves.


End file.
